


Breathing

by TheWordsmithy



Category: They Might Be Giants
Genre: Band Fic, Distractions, Humor, M/M, Musicians, Obsession, RPF, Silly, Unrequited Love, played for laughs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWordsmithy/pseuds/TheWordsmithy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In an interview John [Linnell] said, 'At a certain point you just get tired of the way the other person breathes,' and I took that pretty hard because I, personally, am infatuated with the way John breathes." – John Flansburgh</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to point out that the previously-used quote was something John Flansburgh actually said. I am not in the habit of writing real person fanfiction, but you can't just read a quote like that and not do anything about it.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t let’s start. This is the worst…John? What are you doing?”

Johns Linnell and Flansburgh were in the former’s apartment, playing keyboard and guitar respectively. Their current focus was on a song Linnell had written, entitled “Don’t Let’s Start”. However, Flansburgh, who should have been playing the guitar but was instead standing very close to Linnell and not doing anything in particular, was quite possibly taking the title of Linnell’s song too literally.

“John, what are you doing?” said Linnell. “This is the part where you come in with the guitar. You know, the ‘DOO-DOO, da-doo-du-DUN’ part.” Linnell sang the part to remind his bandmate of what he should be doing.

“Oh, yeah,” said Flansburgh with a distant look in his eyes. “Oh yeah. The ‘DOO-DOO, da-doo-du-DUN’ part. Yeah, that part.” He played it to demonstrate that he did in fact know what Linnell wanted him to do.

Linnell took a deep breath. “Yeah, _that_. Now let’s play it again.” Inhaling with anticipation, he counted in and they began playing the song again. Flansburgh was, at this point, paying more attention to the music and the parts he should be playing, but there was still this nagging, overwhelming fixation at the back of his mind. It wasn’t the upcoming gig that he and John were doing (he was pretty confident in the other songs they had practiced). It wasn’t the fear of screwing up on this and future songs (he used to have that fear, but he was pretty much getting over it now). It wasn’t that nagging feeling of existential doubt that we all get from time-to-time (he wasn’t as predisposed to it as his songwriting buddy was). It wasn’t even the fear that he had left the milk on the counter before coming over to Linnell’s (he was usually in the bad habit of leaving the milk out after using it for his coffee, but he was slowly breaking it).

The thing that was distracting him was the most commonplace, constant, confusingly fixating thing.

It was John Linnell’s breathing.

There was something about the way Linnell breathed that obsessed Flansburgh. He stared at the keyboardist as they worked through the song. What was it about the breathing that he found so magnificent? Linnell’s singing, strong and full of his lyrics’ proclamitory despair (proclamitory? Was that even a word? Flansburgh found himself creating a new lexicon to describe the things Linnell did.) There was a thing worthy of his attention and fascination. Perhaps Linnell’s deft hands and fingers that produced the bold notes and chords of their music would be a more likely candidate for his attraction. Or the man’s musical and lyrical skill, which commanded Flansburgh’s artistic respect for him – that was a perfect reason to be so fixated on Linnell. But no. It had to be something so trivial and ridiculous as his breathing.

“John. John!”

Linnell’s voice brought Flansburgh back to the reality of practice session, which had somehow escaped him while contemplating his feelings towards the keyboardist and his breath.

Flansburgh flailed his arms, the guitar fortunately kept in place by its strap around his shoulder. “Augh! Sorry! I’m sorry for messing it up again! I won’t do it again!”

“Actually,” said Linnell, “that’s not what I was going to say.”

Flansburgh just stood there, head tilted slightly as he looked at his friend.

“I was going to ask what you’re thinking about,” said Linnell. “I mean, it looks like something’s on your mind and it’s kind of bothering you, so what is it?”

“Uh, no, I don’t want to say it,” said Flansburgh. “Uh, I mean, it’s not that important. I don’t have to talk about it. I can just keep playing the song. You know, ‘DOO-DOO da-doo-du-DUN’?” He played the song as he sang his pitiful reconstruction of the notes. “Yeah, like that? Right?”

“John.” Linnell was looking at him quite seriously now. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing. Is. Wrong.” God. He was still doing it. _Breathing_. The way the air left his mouth as he inhaled to breathe in another mouthful – okay, now it was sounding utterly laughable and the stupidity of his fixation was becoming painfully clear, at least to himself.

Linnell shook his head and gave a deep, beautiful sigh. “Fine. Let’s get back to it.” He tapped experimentally on the keyboard. “Don’t, don’t, don’t let’s start – John. You’re not let’s starting.”

And there he was. John Linnell, the most glorious breather in the world, standing in front of Flansburgh, breathing and breathing and breathing. It was too much to handle. Linnell’s majestic presence and his majestic breath, now slightly strained with the pressure of an uncooperative, easily-distracted guitarist who found the mere fact of the keyboardist’s breathing to be amazing beyond belief.

“Let’s start.”

Flansburgh nodded submissively. “O-okay.”

They got through the song. It is forgivable to read that sentence and not understand the significance of what it describes. It was a torturous process for Flansburgh, who was constantly distracting himself from thinking about Linnell and his breathing. He thought about drowning out the thought by singing along as he played, but Linnell would probably get even more irate than he apparently already was (Flansburgh was not supposed to sing on Linnell’s songs), and that would produce no positive effects whatsoever. He tried thinking about cows, which were the furthest-removed thing from the other John’s breathing that his mind could conjure up, but he inevitably considered how cows breathe, too, and it made the whole thing even worse. Linnell’s breathing was not like that of a cow. It definitely was not. Cows breathe crudely and without thought. They snort through their nostrils as they stomp through green fields and farmland. That was the opposite of what John Linnell was. John Linnell and his breathing were nothing like a cow.

John Linnell and his breathing were like a calm reassurance that everything was right with the world, especially where it concerned Linnell and his magnificent existence. All the things John Flansburgh loved about him – his reservedly kind and intelligent nature, his handsome face, his occasional endearing awkwardness, his wonderful way with words, his killer accordion skills – these were the things his breathing reminded him of. It wasn’t the inhaling and exhaling itself, although there was still something curiously charming about it. It was the fact that it signified the continued existence of John Sidney Linnell, and anything that proved that he was in this world and especially with John Flansburgh was a beautiful thing indeed.

Flansburgh waited very patiently until the song was over to say, “John? Can I tell you something?”

Linnell, who was now less irked than he was previously, looked up from the keyboard and over to Flansburgh. “Yes?”

“You – the way you breathe – uh –” Flansburgh’s own words tripped him over and over in his quest to find the right ones. “Uh, keep breathing, John. That’s all I have to say. Keep on breathing.”

Linnell looked at him – a blank, confused, “not-even-trying-to-understand-this” look – and nodded. He _nodded_. He just nodded very, very slowly like a rusty bobblehead and said, “Okay. I will. I will keep on breathing.” He indicated the keyboard. “Now let’s _start_.”


End file.
